


The war is over and we are beginning

by misskraken



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Breakfast, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Bucky has a cat, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Marriage Proposal, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23880133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskraken/pseuds/misskraken
Summary: Bucky shakes his head clear and focuses himself on the task at hand: making the best damn pancake breakfast of all time while simultaneously coming up with a proposal speech that accurately conveys over seventy years of love and loss. No pressure.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 166





	The war is over and we are beginning

The tiny black box with the ring inside it weighs about as much as the average hamster, but Bucky feels it shift around in the pocket of his sweatpants every time he moves. It’s so distracting that he finds himself lining up the breakfast ingredients in front of him and counting them once, twice, three times over: sugar, blueberries, pancake mix (Krusteaz), ricotta cheese, vanilla...

A gentle nudge against his calf shakes Bucky from his reverie, and he looks down into the permanently disgruntled-looking face of Yoda. Yoda, the three-legged, one-eyed shelter cat whom Bucky dotes on and Steve tolerates. He kneads the top of Bucky’s socked foot, catching a few threads in his claws, and meows hopefully.

“I fed you ten minutes ago, fatass,” Bucky whispers, with no small amount of affection. 

Yoda’s responds by leaning his decidedly well-nourished frame against Bucky’s leg and yowling as if Bucky is operating on him without anesthesia. 

“Shh!” Bucky nudges him off and gives him a conciliatory scratch behind his ears. “You’ll wake your stepdad.”

Steve still resolutely maintains that he can’t stand Yoda. Steve’s always disliked cats, a mixture of his former allergies and the fact that every stray cat in Brooklyn seemed to have it out for him back in the day. That being said, ever since Bucky came back from grocery shopping one Saturday afternoon to find Steve vacuuming the living room with Yoda zipped in his hoodie like a baby kangaroo, he’s had a difficult time believing him.

Steve...

Bucky shakes his head clear and focuses himself on the task at hand: making the best damn pancake breakfast of all time while simultaneously coming up with a proposal speech that accurately conveys over seventy years of love and loss. No pressure.

And really, there shouldn’t be any pressure at all. They’ve loved each other since before they knew what love was, and still Bucky finds a new reason to fall even deeper in love with Steve every morning. And while Bucky still wonders how he could possibly deserve the love Steve pours into him ever single day, he’s at a point in their relationship where he trusts that Steve must have a pretty damn good reason.

“I mean, the guy stormed a Nazi base all by himself for you,” Natasha said when Bucky first told her that he was going to ask Steve to marry him. “What’s he gonna do: say no?”

It’s been four years since Bucky’s acquittal and release from custody, four years since he moved into Steve’s apartment and they confessed finally confessed everything they’d been too terrified to admit when they were young. Bucky’s never cared about having a wedding; getting to wake up next to Steve for the rest of his life is miracle enough for him.

But being able to call Steve his husband just has a ring to it that Bucky can’t resist. Sue him.

The watch on Bucky’s wrist gives a soft beep. 6:30. About half an hour till Steve wakes up for his Saturday morning run, give or take a few minutes.

Bucky plugs the skillet into the outlet on the wall, washes his hands one final time, and gets to work.

The blueberry-ricotta pancakes are Steve’s favorite. They started making them when Bucky first came home, eating breakfast at ass crack of dawn because Bucky’s nightmares woke them both up at ungodly hours. Bucky’s made them enough times that he can put his hands on autopilot while he rehearses. 

“Steve,” he mutters as he folds in the blueberries into the batter, making sure not to break up the little lumps of ricotta, “I’ve been wanting to ask you this since we were kids. If you want to have a big ceremony, great. If you want to walk over to the justice of the peace this afternoon and have it with just the two of us, that works too. But I can’t go another day without asking if you to do me the honor of being my-“

Bucky stops and takes his teeth over his bottom lip.

No, that’s not quite right. 

He pours the batter into the griddle, carefully spacing each one out so they don’t run together, and tries again.

“I remember the first time I woke up next to you,” Bucky says. “That first morning after i moved in. I think I spent a good hour just staring at you before you woke up. You slept the way you always had: on your stomach, arms tucked underneath your pillow. You woke up and you smiled at me, and you were so fucking beautiful it felt like my chest was gonna split open. I thought I couldn’t love you any more than I did right in that second, but I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. So I’m asking you, Steven Grant Rogers-“

Bucky’s watch beeps, and he sighs. Five minutes left until Steve’s alarm goes off. Time to put the coffee on.

He’s just gotten the Keurig running and the first pancake flipped onto the waiting platter when Bucky stops and smiles. His back is turned to the kitchen’s entryway, but Bucky feels Steve’s presence the way he feels the sun on his face before he opens his eyes in the morning. 

Bucky doesn’t even look up from the pancakes as Steve’s footsteps enter the kitchen. Tree trunk arms wrap around his waist, and Bucky’s grin splits his face as Steve’s lips find the nape of his neck through the curtain of his long hair.

He’s warm. He’s always warm. 

“Morning,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky puts the last pancake on the stack and unplugs the griddle before he turns in the circle of Steve’s arms. Steve is smiling down at him, hair sticking up at all ends like the feathers of a baby bird. There’s a deep pillow-crease on his left cheek, and Bucky leans forward to kiss it.

“Morning,” he replies.

“You’re up early,” Steve says, rubbing his hands in soothing circles over Bucky’s shoulder blades. “What’s all this?”

“Oh, you know,” Bucky says, trying (and probably failing) to keep his tone nonchalant. “Thought we could have breakfast together, for a change. I figure pancakes are better running fuel than those protein bars.”

There’s a spark of something warm and sweet in Steve’s eyes, and when he cups Bucky’s face in his hands, Bucky has a brief, self-conscious moment of panic.

Maybe he should’ve changed before he started breakfast. His favorite pair of sweatpants and the “I’d rather be schleppy than preppy” sweatshirt that Steve got him last Hanukkah don’t exactly scream romance.

But then Steve kisses him, and suddenly Bucky can’t form a coherent thought at all.

Steve always kisses Bucky like he’s starving for it, like it’s the first and the last time he’ll ever get the opportunity. Steve angles his head, a silent request, and Bucky opens his mouth, letting Steve in. Steve moans somewhere deep in his throat as Bucky sucks on his tongue, his hands skating down Bucky’s sides and landing on his ass. Bucky laughs, breathless, and finally breaks the kiss. 

“Oh no,” Bucky says, picking up the pancakes and setting them onto their kitchen table. “I’m not gonna let you debauch me before breakfast. Not when I got up this early to make it.”

Steve rolls his eyes and grins.

“I wasn’t debauching you, Buck,” he says. “I was just testin’ it out, you know? Making sure it’s nice and healthy.” Steve gives Bucky’s ass a firm pat. “Like the melons at the supermarket, you just gotta-“

“Oh, shut up and eat your food,” Bucky says, pushing Steve down into his chair. His words are softened somewhat by the kiss he drops to his forehead and the mug of coffee he hands him (sweetened with two packs of sugar,just the way Steve likes).

They both settle into their breakfast, the sun just beginning to lighten the sky outside. As early as it is, this would’ve been considered a late breakfast four years ago. It was Steve who held him when Bucky screamed himself awake, rocking them both back and forth as Bucky sobbed into his chest, the memories of Hydra’s torture still fresh in his mind. It was Steve who made breakfast then, who took Bucky’s hand and lead him into the soft light of their little kitchen. He’d turn on the tv for some background noise, something inane and droning like animal planet or the food network, and he’d brew coffee.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Bucky said one night, four months after he came home. He’d had a five-night streak of sleeping through all the way until morning. Bucky wasn’t one to get his hopes up over just anything, but it was encouraging to think that maybe, just maybe, he could have a new normal. 

It all went to shit that night.

He dreamed that he was back in one of Hydra’s labs, his arms and legs shackled to the sides of that fucking chair. 

Beside him, a team of doctors swarmed over an operating table. There were too many of them to see who was on it, but Bucky could see the tools they passed back and forth: a pair of bloody forceps, a scalpel, a bonesaw. The faces of the surgeons were unmasked, monstrous, their features drifting across their faces as they tilted their heads back and screamed with laughter: eyes that slid across foreheads, noses that turned sideways.

One of the surgeons left his place at the head of the table, and Bucky finally saw who they were operating on.

His beautiful face was covered in bruises, blood crusted in the corner of his mouth.

“Bucky,” Steve whispered. “Bucky, help me.”

Bucky had been awake for almost half an hour now, and his hands were still shaking.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Bucky said again, shifting his weight in his chair and tracing the T-shaped scar in the wood of their kitchen table. “They’re not going away anytime soon. If you want, I can start sleeping on the couch-“

“Don’t,” Steve said, his voice firm but heartbreakingly gentle. He finished pouring the coffee into the second mug and handed it to Bucky. Bucky nodded his thanks and drank. It was hot and bitter and exactly what he needed, the warmth spreading through him like the first rays of sun. Bucky drained the coffee in seconds, only stopping to read the block lettering on the front of the mug once he’d finished.

World’s Sexiest Grandpa.

“Gift from Nat,” Steve said sheepishly. “She thinks she’s funny.”

Bucky snorted, just a dry ghost of a laugh, but it made Steve’s eyes light up all the same. Steve took Bucky’s left hand in his and pressed it to his lips before he dropped to his knees, settling himself on the floor. He rested his head on Bucky’s thigh, stroking his kneecap with his free hand. Bucky sighed and carded his hand through Steve’s hair, smiling wanly at all its impossible cowlicks, still unchanged after all these years.

For a moment, the two of them were quiet.

“I don’t wanna disappoint you, Steve,” Bucky said finally, before he even realized what he was saying. “I’m not the same guy you fell in love with. Yeah, some of the memories came back, but all the shit they tore out of me... there’s still so much that I’m missing.” Bucky paused, rubbed the back of his neck before continuing. “I love you, more than anything, but-“

“Then that’s all I need,” Steve said. He reached up and cupped Bucky’s face with so much tenderness that it broke Bucky’s heart. 

“It’s not going to be easy,” Bucky said.

“I don’t need easy,” Steve said. “I just need you. Don’t you get it, Buck? You’re it for me. All that time you spent taking care of me when we were kids... let me return the favor for a little while, yeah?”

For a second, Bucky shut his eyes and swallowed against the onslaught of emotion.

“Godammit, Rogers,” he muttered, right before he leaned forward and crushed Steve’s mouth in a kiss that lasted well into the the morning.

Here, sitting at their little kitchen table, watching Steve hork back pancakes with all the grace and poise of a pelican trying to devour a school of tuna, Bucky’s heart swells for him all over again. He reaches out and strokes Steve’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Steve smiles at him and rests his own hand on Bucky’s shoulder

“You sleep okay last night?” Steve asks. “You were pretty fidgety.”

Beneath the table, Bucky’s curls his spare hand into a fist. Here goes nothing.

“Oh, I was fine,” Bucky says. “Everything’s great, actually. Just had a few things on my mind. And no, I’m not thinking about getting another cat.”

“Thank god,” Steve says, casting a sour look at Yoda, who’s glaring at them both from his cozy position on the rug in front of the fridge. Suddenly, Steve brightens.

“Hold that thought,” he says before getting up and rummaging through the pantry, he back turned to Bucky. Inexplicably, Steve reaches for a box of those nasty-ass Triscuits that only he ever eats. Bucky’s too caught up by in the task at hand to really give a shit about Steve’s geriatric cravings, though. He carefully gets up from the table.

“You said you were thinking about something?” Steve says, the tinfoil of the bag inside the Triscuit box crackling loudly.

“Oh yeah,” Bucky says, carefully lowering himself onto one knee. He takes a deep breath and pulls the tiny box from his pocket. When he opens it, the gold rings glints against the black velvet like the heart of a star. 

Steve’s still fiddling with that damn Triscuit box. God, how long does it take for the average super soldier to get a cracker out of a cardboard box?

“I was just thinking about how much I love you,” Bucky says.

It’s not fancy or eloquent, and Bucky knows it. But goddamn, if it ain’t the truth.

Steve finally puts the box back on the shelf and starts to turn around.

“Aw, Buck,” Steve says, a smile in his voice, “I love you t-“

Steve’s voice dies when he sees Bucky down on one knee. Bucky almost chokes on his own tongue.

There’s a little black box in Steve’s hand, one with a simple gold band inside.

Time stops. The world stops.

“Well,” Steve says finally, “this is awkward.”

“For you, maybe,” Bucky says. “A Triscuit box?

“Well, I couldn’t hide it in my sock drawer,” Steve says, “what with you stealing my cabin socks all the damn time.

“I told you, that was Yoda.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

And then Bucky’s falling over onto his side, laughing so hard he can’t speak. Steve’s right behind him, knees thudding onto the hardwoods as he gasps for air.

“So is that a yes?” Bucky asks when he can finally form the words.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says, his eyes bright as the stars, bright as the sun streaming in their window. “You bet it is.”

Bucky takes the ring out of his box and slides it onto Steve’s finger. When Steve offers his own ring, Bucky stretches out his left hand before realizing that the ring can’t possibly fit over the metal plates. Steve doesn’t miss a beat, though. He takes hold of Bucky’s right hand and slides the ring on. It’s a perfect fit.

“There,” Steve says, lacing their fingers together. “Now the rings will touch when we hold hands.”

And really, how can Bucky possibly respond to that but by throwing his arms around Steve’s neck and kissing the living daylights out of him?

Steve curls his arms around Bucky and holds him flush, so tight that Bucky would lose his breath if he wasn’t what he is. It’s not enough. Bucky leans into him, and Steve lowers them the rest of the way to the kitchen floor, covering Bucky’s body with his own. Bucky gasps, dizzy with the suddenly feeling of Steve’s weight pressing over him, and he spreads his legs, hooking them over Steve’s hips.

Steve’s hands skate underneath Bucky’s sweatshirt, roaming over his chest and belly, and the chill of Steve’s wedding ring shading Bucky’s skin knocks the air out of Bucky’s lungs.

He’s so in love.

Steve’s kisses are aimless now, almost deranged in the way they land over every square inch of Bucky’s face, over his eyelids, his chin, the hinge of his jaw. He looms over Bucky, hair wild, eyes crazed, breath coming in ragged gasps as he reaches down between them and presses the heel of his hand against Bucky’s groin. Bucky moans, helpless as he writhes in Steve’s grip.

“My boy,” Steve murmurs as he pushes Bucky’s sweatshirt up to his chest. “My beautiful boy.”

Bucky laces his fingers through Steve’s hair as his lips touch Bucky’s sternum, then lower, lower. He shudders when Steve’s lips reach his navel, the treasure trail of hair beneath. Bucky arches his back, closed his eyes and-

Steve halts his descent, his mouth frozen against Bucky’s skin.

“The cat’s still there, isn’t he?” Steve says, not lifting his head.

Bucky looks over his shoulder, and sure enough, Yoda is still enthroned on the rug, staring at them with all the disapproval and moral superiority of a thousand little old church ladies. He gives them a final, disapproving sniff before he lifts his legs and starts to give himself a thorough cleaning.

Bucky laughs, and Steve groans.

“A man can’t even make love to his fiancé in the privacy of his own kitchen anymore,” Steve grumbles, getting to his feet. He scoops Bucky up in his arms and stars walking towards the bedroom. Bucky weighs about two hundred and fifty pounds on a skinny day, but Steve carries his bulk like he’s light as air.

“I swear, Buck,” Steve says, “that cat’s gonna end up in a stew if he’s not careful

Bucky drapes his arms around Steve’s neck and plants a sloppy kiss on Steve’s cheek.

“You love Yoda,” Bucky says smugly. “Don’t pretend that you don’t.”

Bucky expects Steve to roll his eyes and deny it, but instead, he smiles.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I guess I do.”

Before Bucky can respond, Steve catches his mouth in a kiss, and Bucky feels the curve of Steve’s grin against his lips.

“But not as much as I love you.”


End file.
